Chapter 57: Stormlanders XXI
Mid 158 AC
(Rewritten as of 9/25/2022)
"Another dead end," Greycairn muttered, looking into crevices likely older than his house, and just as empty of lost Wyl treasures. Certainly, snakes and scorpions would fit through those cracks, perhaps a skinny jackal as well, but no man or treasure. Just one of so many different spots he had searched since arriving in this dreadful valley, where the cooler winds and clouds often broke during midday, leaving the Dornish winter sun to bear down upon their heads. Were it not for the wide-brimmed hats the prince had had the foresight to supply, they'd have been scorched by the sun every day.
"Just like the others then," Galewood muttered, signaling to his men to move on. "I'll see you back at the camp then?"
"Aye, my lord," Greycairn replied, turning away, his own men following. To think of how high their spirits had been weeks ago, upon their arrival in the shadows of the Wyl keep. It had been an easy journey from Blackhaven's mustering point, with no bandits, no poisoned wells, not even fights between the men. Now? He bit back a curse as he slightly stumbled on some loose rocks, quickly regaining his balance as they moved on.
He'd had enough of Dorne to last the rest of his life, and already he wished to be home, despite the… lucrative opportunities presented as being a part of the prince's party.
"Where's the next one?" he grumbled as the last of his men marked the area with small stake, upon which was wrapped a strip of black cloth. Even now, had he the will to guess, there might be well over a hundred of those damned stakes spread around this valley, further evidence of their fruitless searching.
"Just past this old grove of trees, father," Hugh replied, his eyes constantly scanning for dangers. "They look to have been olives at some point."
"Bah! Olives, good for little else other than their oil," Greycairn muttered, ensuring his son stayed close. He was not going to lose him as they had Erich. "Anything growing on them, or are they dead like so much else in this fuckin' valley?"
"Nay, father, they've shade at least, though a bit wild in their undergrowth. No smallfolk have tended to this place in a long time."
Indeed, as they passed under old, gnarled olive limbs, some dead and dry while others yet sprouted greenery, he walked along the dried bottom of what had been a canal at some point. Long overtaken on all sides by weeds, amongst the crumbles remains of a well that had fallen in on itself, it was any wonder that anything was left. Long had his own father told him how quickly the world would reclaim that which man made, but to see it so high in the mountains filled him with a tinge of anger.
Not much farther, past the only standing wall of what might have been a house, there was another deeper portion of the land. Higher than some, he followed his men into it, the cooler air within refreshing if not a bit stale. With no wind today, the air just sat, taking in every part of dust they kicked into the air as they moved. From a distance, they likely looked as if they were amidst small patches of smoke.
"Promising, at least," one of his men said, garnering his attention.
"Yes?"
The man motioned. "Wagon ruts, milord, old ones too," he added, motioning to dirt long since dried. Indeed, someone had brought a wagon through here, many perhaps, and with a spark of hope in his chest, Greycairn moved along. The going was not terribly difficult, much easier than the others, but he clung to the hope that he would find something this day… only to bite back another curse when they came to a wall of rock. Jagged sandstone and mountain boulders lay scattered about, a great pile reaching to the very top of the cave. Indeed, some had been dragged, for even he could see the marks of old pickaxes in the rockface, but the pile itself was rather… odd. Some of it even seemed slippery, almost smooth, as if it had… melted?
"Another dead end, then," one of his other men said, angry muttering popping up among the others. "Just like all the others."
"If this were the way those wagons went, hence the old tracks, then they brought the cave down behind them," Hugh said, running his hand along the smoother stones. "Water did not turn these this smooth, father."
"Dragonfire did that, my son," he replied, rubbing his face. He'd seen it for himself during and after the Dance, the remnants of places where fire met stone and turned it into a running slurry before it once again solidified. Truly horrific to contemplate, that something could be so hot as to do that. "Our king's ancestors were here at some point and torched this cave after the rocks fell."
"To seal in whomever or whatever was down further?"
Greycairn shrugged. "Or out of anger, I wouldn't have put it past them since they burned every Dornish castle at least once in those earlier years."
"Do you think that the smallfolk might have sought refuge in here, and either caused the cave to collapse or had it collapse behind them?"
"If they did not mean for it to happen, then that was poor luck. If they did do it to themselves, then there were idiots," Greycairn replied. "I doubt a cave like this had another exit, else they would have returned to rebuild their homes once the Conqueror and his wives were gone. Were we to dig, I'd wager we'd find their remains on the other side." There was a reason that miners were so terrified of cave-ins, they'd almost always suffocate before getting rescued even if they weren't crushed.
"Assuming the cave does not collapse further if we tried," his heir added.
"Aye, mark this one with a red cloth, Seven know we still have so many of those left. We'll have to let the prince know there's evidence here, at least."
Seven above, when the prince had told them of the missing Wyl treasure and it's potential location, Greycairn had felt a youthful spirit he'd not known for decades. The thought of such treasure, even a small portion of it, would mean so much for his house. Their coffers were not empty by any means, but the addition of so much could definitely see their house rise amongst their fellows. Indeed, Galewood and the others had felt much the same way, their spirits high as they all entered this valley not even a week prior.
Now? Now he would rather find a single chest of gold dragons to split amongst the lords and call their quest over. Even the chance to march alongside the prince had lost much of its luster, though he'd never admit to that. Speaking ill of the prince, one who seemed to love the Stormlands as his own, and had marched to war against the Dornish, even eliminating an entire force all his own?
Utter madness to contemplate such talk.
Yet for all his reservations, Greycairn was thankful tomorrow he was off the rotation. The prince's fairness in ensuring not one lord or his men did everything, and not long after his men were certain there remained no means of bypassing the cave-in, they returned to the camp, just in time to prepare for their supper. Say what one might about food while on the march, but the prince had provided more than reasonable fare for their bellies, among them good stews with spices and meat, roasted corn and fine fresh bread from what cooking fires they oversaw. At least their camp, erected the previous day around the remains of an old manse whose structure yet seemed sound enough, had a good well from which to draw water. Most other wells they had yet found in this accursed valley were buried by rubble or were melted much like the cave rocks were.
"Captain, report," he said, biting away the last kernels of corn from his roasted husk. The prince had stated that they would reuse the husks for when using the latrines, which Greycairn tried not to think of. At least they were far enough away that the well wouldn't be tainted and the smell rarely reached them. "How are the men?"
"By all accounts, the men are ready to bed down after a long day of searching." His captain was not yet old, but well into his forties, and despite the paling of his hair, he was as stalwart and true a man as could be hoped for. "Aside from grumbling about the lack of progress in the prince's… venture, nothing much else, my lord."
"The men grumble? Of course they would, the heat'll make anyone grumble if they so much as have to walk from the latrine to their bedroll," Greycairn replied.
His captain firmly nodded. "Indeed, my lord, but those that have been looking all this time are beginning to complain of a lack of, well, anything really. There are no Dornish to kill, some say, but others make note of the wages they are losing by being out in these mountains."
"Of course they'd grumble over coppers," the lord said. "All they can think about now that they know there might be treasure out here."
"My lord, if I may… is there a treasure hoard? Some are beginning to voice doubts it even exists."
"As far as I'm aware, the prince believes there is treasure to be found out here, and who am I to doubt a prince?" Greycairn replied. "Besides, the men grumble because they are off to war, there's little need for taking it to heart. At the end of the day, they'll do what they are told, or face the lash for it. Ensure they aren't spreading their vapid ideas to the others, captain, I'll not have the other lords think I can't control my own men."
"Aye, my lord, I'll see to their grumbling. Goodnight, my lord."
Greycairn expected many things when he awoke that next morning, the sunshine gently casting its early rays off the mountaintops. The smell of thin, salted pork frying over a fire, small fruit pies wafting their scent through the camp, and a sense of contentment among the men now that their day of rest had arrived. Instead, he found not only his rasher of bacon and fruit pie arriving shortly after his dressing, but his captain as well, a pensive look on his face.
"Well?" he asked, breaking his fast. This high in the mountains, getting a feast was out of the question, but as always, the prince had outdone himself in the quality of food available to those on this mission. Greycairn knew there was nothing like hardtack and gruel to bog down your spirits before the sun had fully risen, and thankfully the prince had none of that in their wagons. That the prince had also ensured they would not gather for breaking their fast unless it was important was also a blessing he'd never considered. Having to wait to eat when arising hungry was torturous.
"My lord, there has been an… issue among some of the men," his captain said.
"More grumbling? Gods, do they want the lash? We'll find what we're looking for when we do so."
"No, my lord, it's not about that. A good few have had… dreams."
"Dreams? So? How does this concern me?"
The captain glanced around, as if trying to avoid eye contact, but failing miserably instead. "They all speak of the same dream, my lord, near down to the same horrid details. Darkness, sickness, of something watching them…"
"Bah!" Greycairn replied, finishing his food. "I'm certain it's nothing we haven't dealt with before. It's just the nerves of looking for something they haven't found and are finally having a day of rest from it. They'll be fine in short order."
"Of… of course, my lord."
"Very well. Did any messengers arrive whilst I was yet asleep?"
"Yes, my lord, one from Lord Galewood. He and his men are also relieved of the search for the day, and are ensuring their skills remain up to par."
"Very well, I will speak to him shortly. Where is Hugh?"
"With the men near the well, my lord, overseeing the drawing of the water to refill our water wagons."
Greycairn smiled. Excellent, his new heir was picking up quickly on the skills Erich had had to learn before him. In time, he would be just as skilled as his brother had been, Seven rest his soul. At least the Dornish bastards that had slain his heir were now rotting in the Seven hells courtesy of Lord Wytch. Wytch… a man he might have had use for, were it not for the shortsighted nature of others. He did not regret seeing to the end of the last Lord Wytch, but this one… much he would have done different, if he had known what he would become.
What he might yet become.
Joining Lord Galewood in the shadows of an old grove of lemon trees, their gnarled branches yet rife with tattered green, it not yet midmorning and already the day preparing to be a hot one. Not a cloud remained from night, and even now, the breeze grew lesser with every passing hour. His fellow lord's grim expression amidst the greenery, however, put an end to whatever hopeful conversation he might have looked forward to.
"Troubles, my lord?" he asked, glad to have found proper seats of an old bench beneath the canopy. A lord, just sitting in the dirt? It was not done!
"Aye, aside from whatever bollocks the men are dreaming of," Galewood replied, looking to his portion of the camp spread out before them. "Darkness and sickness? We've not met a single bandit since we departed the lands around Wylgrove. Only the occasional jackal and vulture follows us, no doubt looking to make a meal of some corpse or dead animal."
"Then what is the matter?"
"Lord Wytch."
Greycairn suppressed a groan. Not long after the lords had returned to their lands Galewood had written of concern on their fellow trying to make a move upon Storm's End. "What is it now?"
"He knows, I know it. Somehow or another, he knows of us and our… involvement with Craggner."
That was… unexpected, and he quickly glanced around, to ensure no prying eyes or surreptitious ears were paying them any attention. "Are you certain of this?"
"I have felt it since our march against the Wyl bastard and his forces, but the longer I think of it, the more convinced of it I grow."
"Then why has he done nothing?" Greycairn countered. "Few if any men could keep themselves from exacting any revenge should they find out what we were a part of."
"He's not quick to act, he's not stupid like that blasted Craggner was. He's clever, looks to the future longer than any man has a right to, and look at what he's done since he became lord?" Galewood ran a hand over his face, looking nigh a decade older than he was. Greycairn could almost feel the man's exhaustion over this line of thinking. "Roads and towns, septs and crops, granaries and goodwill across the Stormlands and even now is growing beyond that. Talks with the Tarths and Conningtons on whatever matters concern them, an established betrothal of his sister to the new Selmy heir, close ties with the other Marcher lords… I fear there is nothing we can do that he cannot counter with extreme disparity, my lord, and I feel he knows this."
"Then why simply wait? It makes little sense for him to do nothing while we regain our strength. He would have struck while we were at our weakest, surely?"
"I thought so too, but with his friendship with a prince of the blood, and our king's heir…"
Greycairn battled the sliver of horror in his belly. "You think it matters not how strong we are, for he could and would bring against us something insurmountable."
"Our lord is not a man to anger, and Lord Baratheon was plenty angry when we first were involved with the events surrounding Lord Craggner's folly. I shudder to think of his abject fury should the worst of our actions come to light, or even be supposed by others."
"Thus Lord Wytch feels he can wait as long as he wishes, should he know of our involvement. Yet why he would do so continues to escape me, my lord. A man who knows of such damning involvement could not sit on it for long before it consumed him. Doubtless he made an oath to his father of seeking revenge, and an oath like that can change a man for the worse."
"Yet it still stands that we have so much to lose should he bring his accusations against us," Galewood countered. "Unless there is an opportunity during our search for an… accident to befall him, then I see little else that can be done. If not for our own hides, then for the sake of our heirs and our houses."
"… let us discuss other matters of import, my lord, lest others wonder why we speak when we should be resting," Greycairn said.
"Break it up! Break it up!" Hugh Greycairn shouted, his father's captain at his side while he strode into the fray. More than a dozen men were locked in fisticuffs, some punching and kicking while others grappled as if their lives depended on it. "I said break, men! Get ahold of yourselves!"
The bravado was a mere shell, courtesy of the same ailment they had been suffering for the past three nights. Hugh felt his insides twist as the men slowed their movements, as if coming out of a daze, and broke apart, some falling while others staggered back. More than a few had bloodied noses or bruises already forming, and gods above, thank the Seven none were carrying weapons this far into camp, else steel would have most definitely been drawn.
"You!" he said, pointing to one of the scrappers. "Your name?"
"Edd, milord."
"Edd, I am in need of answers, lest my father hears of this and you all earn a good five lashes. What in the seven hells is going on?"
The tired glances between the gathered, of fighters and bystanders alike, did not escape his notice. "Just a disagreement is all, milord."
"Disagreements don't end in fisticuffs when on the march, soldier. We're all on edge and lacking in sleep, that shouldn't mean you turn on one another over the merest of words."
"Damn right we can't sleep!" one of the others said, his voice muffled as he held a definitely broken nose, judging from the blood. "Fuckin' nightmares, we're all havin' 'em, and then we 'ave to search for bloody treasure when we're near dead on our feet?"
"This land is a terrible excuse for a domain, yet it is where this treasure may be, by the prince's intuition. Besides, we're all suffering from troubles, men, even the lords," Hugh lied through his grimace. His father made no mention of nightmares, nor had the other lords, but why would they tell him anyway? The newest heir to the Greycairn line he may be, but his father likely yet saw him as a boy. He couldn't tell father of his own dreams, either, but he had to find out what was causing them. Another night or two of horrid sleep, and who knows how the camp might act? "I'll speak with the lords on the matter, see if we can't find a solution. Until then, see to your wounds with the medics, and return to your tasks, unless you wish for the lash."
The men grumbled but did as they were told, and with a heavy sigh, he departed their midst, the feeling of their near-mutinous eyes on his back sending a chill down his spine. Gods, he missed Erich, his older brother always knew what to do in these situations, he was so much better with giving orders without seeming overbearing. Damn those Wyl bastards to the hells for using his older brother as a shield for Stormlander arrows, that whirlwind from the Seven and Lord Wytch's later impalement was too good an end for them!
"My lord?" the captain asked, and it took all of Hugh's willpower to not draw his sword as his thoughts were interrupted. He knew of his father's captain, the man had help train Erich and himself with the bow in the training yard, and yet he'd seen the man take his father's seat in their home in his dreams. The man who taught them how to search for a dagger on a guest would never throw him from Cairnfell, and yet he dreamt of running in the vast forests around their home, the sound of hunting dogs fast approaching, the rumble of hooves of pursuing horsemen, the scream of his mother as they got to her first after she fell behind…
"Yes, captain?" he replied as evenly as he could.
"Weren't my place to say it in front of the men, but… the other captains and I have been speaking, and we're not alone in this."
"Aye?"
"Yes, my lord. Most the others are havin' trouble with their men getting a good night's rest, some even worse than ours. Most sound like they be havin' nightmares about home or somethin' from their past, but a few…"
"Yes, captain?"
"A few keep seein' the same things when they sleep. Don't know what to make of it, my lord, but it bodes ill."
Hugh paused as they neared the central manse, within which the prince had established the center of their camp. The missing rooftops had been replaced by their larger tents, and save for the damned land they were in, it almost looked appealing. "I'll discuss this with my father, perhaps he'll bring it up with the other lords and the prince. What do the men dream of, that has them is such an unruly state?"
"Darkness, white foam, gurgling, and a terrible smell is what most remember," the captain said. "I've had no nightmares, much as I can recall, or if I have them I forget them right quick. Normally I'd chalk all this up to simple fatigue, but…"
"This is no party of green boys," Hugh replied. He himself was no longer a virgin to battle and blood, not after what the Dornish had done in the Stormlands. Not after what he had seen, of how he had found his brother's body the next morning…
"Aye, all of us have seen battle, be it by Baelor's side in Dorne itself or in the Marches before that," the captain replied. "The prince and Lord Wytch have supplied us with more than enough to take any strain off this march or search, and the prince has not been unreasonable. Frequent breaks to rest from the heat, ensuring every man has enough water, only allowing strenuous searches or tasks when the morning is yet cool or after the heat of the day has passed… yet for all this, we're suffering from this oddness infecting the camp."
"Yet not all are affected the same, despite all sharing in our food and water," Hugh reasoned. "Only a few nightmares could simply be stress, but so many, so regularly? I would dare say action against us is underfoot, only… not all are affected the same, and that still doesn't explain the dreams. You say they dream of terrible smells and darkness?"
"Aye, those that admit to it. I fear more suffer but say little of it. As the son of a lord, might the prince hear you better than our petitions? He has reassured us before, according to other captains, but we believe a lord's word might carry more weight."
"Mayhaps, if I can convince father of it. I'll see what I can do, captain. Return to the men, and see if we can't find some softer ground for their bedrolls."
The man departed as Hugh entered the repurposed manse, the great gathering of lords already under way. Good, with the reports on supplies by the quartermasters done, perhaps he might have his chance?
"Father," he whispered, leaning close to the lord's side. "Another fight has occurred."
He glanced up at him. "Did you deal with the matter?"
"Yes, father, but the captain brings word of troubles among the others. I would suggest-,"
"I will discuss it with you later, my boy, the prince is to speak," his father replied, soft but firm, indicating nothing else was to be said. Biting back his protests, Hugh stood by his father's side as the prince rose from his seat. The boy, or young man by all accounts, did not look well. None had heard of him suffering from nightmares, nor even restless sleep, but since when would the prince tell them of that? What man would risk his hide spreading such rumors of the prince who so favored their homes and kingdom?
"My lords, our searches yet prove fruitless, but we are coming to the end of this endeavor, the Seven will it so," the prince said, his voice steady, even if his hair was longer than before, and his skin a tawny shade. Far be it from their prince to not search with them, even going so far as to scout around the base of the old Vulture's Roost. No entry into that castle yet lay open, but perhaps, in time, they might find answers there? "Word has reached us from scouts that, despite our lack of bandits along our route, Lord Baratheon has seen fit to send additional men and supplies to our location."
"When might they arrive, my prince?" Lord Wysp asked. The group seemed happier at this news, but Hugh could only see the table before them rattle slightly, silently. Did anyone else see that? Or were his nightmares addling his mind, as well as the men's?
"Within a week, perhaps less, given they had departed near the same time as the messengers had," Baelor replied, rubbing his face. "Until then, thanks to Lord Greycairn's efforts, we shall focus more of our effort on the caved-in crevice found days before. Come morning, the engineers will see to removing as many boulders as possible, those not fused by dragonfire at least, and strengthening the entrance so a further collapse does not commence."
"My prince, what of our troubles among the men? They grow more and more unruly by the day," Lord Galewood said, his own heir by his side. Despite serving together in the Marches, Hugh did not even remember his name…
"The lack of sleep is concerning, but there is little we can do to alleviate it," the prince replied, resting his hands upon the table. "Unless someone can find a source of our troubles, be it unseen enemy action, something in the only water we have available, or a lack of creature comforts, all we can do is pray to the Seven for relief and look to softer ground for our men. Lord Wytch, have there been any deserters?"
"None that we know of, for roll call every night indicates none have fled," the young lord replied. "Ser Thorne, the other day you spoke of something else that the Dornish may have placed with the treasure, a weapon if I recall. Did your sources cite whatever it might be?"
"Nothing beyond vague allusions of power, I'm afraid," the Kingsguard replied. "If it is affecting us, if it even exists anymore, I neither know nor care how. Our men are tired and fraying, but they are not yet broken. With additional men from Lord Baratheon, perhaps we shall be able to send home the most damaged by lack of sleep?"
"It was, after all, not until we entered this valley days before that such maladies visited themselves upon us," Baelor said. "Yet camping outside of the valley would severely hamper any progress we could make, if not make the entire journey fruitless. We shall see what tomorrow brings, my lords, so until then, return to your men."
With that dismissal, the other lords rose from their seats. Hugh felt his father subtly nudge him away, just as Lord Wytch congratulated Lord Wysp on his Swann marriage and expected child. The table, to Hugh's eyes, rattled again, but none made note of it, and he decided it was nothing, just a trick of the light.
"Another fight? That's the third since we found that collapsed cave," his father muttered. "The men listened to you, at least?"
"Yes, father, but the lack of sleep, we should ask the prince-,"
"We will ask the prince tomorrow, the discussion is done for today," Greycairn whispered, his fatherly glare ending all rebellious words in Hugh's throat. "Come, we've to have our supper soon, and I-,"
A horn blast sounded amongst the edges of the camp, startling them both. Almost immediately, the men around the manse set into dead sprints, Hugh following closely behind his father as they went for their portion of the camp, even as more horns sounded, and shouts and cries erupted all around them. Attack… they were under attack!
"Captain!" his father shouted as they appeared near their main tent, their men already scrambling to quickly don their weapons and whatever armor they could.
"Yes, my lord?" the man asked, appearing from within their tent, already handing them their swords and armor. There was no time for plate, but a quick slip into a mail surcoat, and his helmet strapped to his chin, and Hugh was as ready as he could be.
"What's in the Seven hells is happening? Who is attacking?"
"Bandits, my lord!" he cried, as an arrow stuck into the ground near their feet, encouraging Hugh to dive behind the cover of one of the wagons, his father and the captain likewise doing the same. More blasts of their horns sounded, and the camp grew into a frenzy of men arming and armoring themselves as quickly as they could, some retuning fire with their own arrows at foes Hugh could not yet see. "Bandits, a score of them, driving right towards our supplies!"
The heart of their camp was the prince, and though they had seen no trouble before now, Lord Wytch had ensured no supplies were no under guard and fortification. Yet with the need for room, most were not in the center, but middling between the edges of their stakes, and the quarters where the men slept…
"Then to our supplies we go!" Lord Greycairn shouted, calling to the others. "You, men, with my son! Hugh, you secure the supplies around well, I'll see to the ones with mules! Without either, we're fucked!"
"Yes father!" Hugh replied, and with the captain by his side, he rushed through the camp, more of his father's men joining him, as were others from other houses, until they reached the primary well in the camp's perimeter.
It was a scene of madness. Bandits, scores of them, swarthy and skinny and wearing whatever tatters they could, were making a mad dash towards the well and the wagons that surrounded it. Wild eyes, determined grimaces, some even seemed to not care that the men they ran towards were leveling spears and swords in their direction, and even as blood flew and men cried out, the group pushed on. Hugh ordered his men by his side, the last vestiges of the sun's rays now just upon the peaks of the mountains, and with seemingly every breath, the valley grew cooler and darker.
The clash was fierce. Blood splashed around him as Hugh dodged a spear thrust, the rusted metal bouncing across a cart's side as he drove his sword through the man's chest. Amidst a gout of blood he retreated, kicking the man into his fellows, whose sole objective was the well. The wagons they reached they hacked at and slashed, even as an errant arrow or spear pierced their flesh and drove them to the ground. Several bandits suddenly appeared with small pots, and Hugh felt his blood run cold. The well was one of their only sources of clean water this high into the valley, the small streams that formed into the River Wyl far too far from camp to safely draw from. All other wells they had found were melted by dragonfire or collapsed under rubble, yet this one stayed free and true, and always had water to draw from its depths. If they poisoned it…
"The well!" he cried, men of several colors gathering near him, Wysp and Galewood and even Wytch alike. "Drive them from the well! They mean to taint it!"
Those with the pots rushed the well, weaving past any they could, even as the men nearest Hugh pushed the carts away from the wells to save their contents. Much food and supplies were in them, and were they to be torched, their loss would be greatly felt. Yet the well, the well, a voice called to him to protect it, but were it his own or another man's crying out, he did not know. He gutted the first of the bandits nearest the well, kicking the pot away. A foul, bubbling foam spilled from the pot, seeping over the ground and mixing with the man's blood and steaming guts. Others joined him, spear and axe and sword driving them back, just as one of the carts, mangled by the blows of the Dornish lying dead at its side, cracked apart and collapsed against the well. None of the pots landed in the well, Hugh was sure of it, but the liquid seeped along the ground, running as oil would over a stone floor. It shone in the lights of the nearby fires, and unbidden, after beheading a crawling Dornish, pot still clung in his weathered hands, Hugh looked up.
A Dornishman, eyes milky but smile far too wide, had grabbed a burning log from one of the fires, and with his skin blistering and peeling under its still-red coals, shoved it into the canvas of the cart. Hugh deeply sliced through his throat, the head almost bending backwards as the man fell, but the cart began to burn, the fire spreading quickly.
"Back!" a voice cried, and Hugh turned to find Lord Wytch by his side, bloodied but otherwise unharmed. "Back, that's the oil cart!"
Little else was needed to be said, and as Hugh helped drag an injured soldier back from the Dornish, their corpses piled around the carts like piles of carrion, the cart's contents burst forth in gouts of flame. The heat washing over his back, Hugh dared not look back as the entire area was bathed in a great glow, the fire spreading amongst the rivers of leaking oil and whatever the bandits carried in those pots. When he did look back, the inferno consumed the cart, and even the bodies, encircling the entire well… rendering his efforts all for naught.
A horrid crackling sound gurgled from the well, and amidst the flames, a noxious steam emerged from its depths, drifting like smoke amongst their number. The smell, like rotting fish and stagnant water, made Hugh's eyes water, and were it not for the higher ground, it might have made sleep impossible. Instead, like a stream around their feet, it drifted down and away from the scene of battle, slowly dissipating until the burnt husks and charred ground around the well were all that remained.
Not an hour later, sleep tugging at him as sentries reported no more attackers nearby, Hugh peered inside the well as others gathered around him. The water within… was gone. Their well was dry, and with it, their closest source of clean water. Gods damn these Dornish!
"Fuckin' hells, these men," someone said, and Hugh turned to find his father near them, with more and more men gathering around the well and dead Dornish. There had to be near a hundred of them, perhaps more, but to brazenly attack a party of near a thousand? "They burnt like they were dry kindling!"
"It's an ill omen, for so few to attack so recklessly," another voice said, and Hugh saw the prince emerge with Ser Thorne by his side, both with bloodied swords, but otherwise unharmed. "It means we are close to discovering that which they mean us not to. They sought to cripple us far from relief and may have done so. We must dig this well once more and hope the seep hasn't been ruined."
"How in the hells could that fire have been hot enough to do this?" Hugh asked, as more men brushed past him, pushing apart what charred remains of the… 'bandits' they could. "It burned for perhaps an hour, but it would take far more than that to-,"
He had barely any time to react before the ground beneath him, and so many others, grumbled and let out a low, ominous groan. Panic reinvigorating his tired body, he threw himself backwards, just as the well collapsed in on itself, crumbling like sand before a great wave. Others who were not so lucky fell as from around the well, the ground opened up, a massive dark maw that fell down into untold depths. Amongst screams and men scrambling back from the growing chasm, Hugh's footing slipped, only for a hand to grab him and prevent his plunge into the dust-filled darkness.
Turning back as the sounds from the great crashing beneath him declined, he found other hands grabbing and pulling him back. His father's captain had saved him. He knew those nightmares to be false, but to see the man's relief at his safety… it was a balm on his soul.
"What in the hells happened?" he heard Lord Wytch shout, the rocks beneath them finally settling into a gradual, yet dark slope. "You, get some torches, we've men down in there!"
Hugh, his heart racing, moved to his father's side, who pulled him into a quick embrace. "Are you all right, my son?"
"Aye, aye father, but the men, there's men down there, we must-,"
"The others will see to them. You need to sleep, but first we'll get that blood off you."
Suddenly too tired to argue, Hugh demurely accepted a wet towel from a passing medic, wiping himself as best he could from the blood of the dead Dornish as men with torches meandered down into the now gaping hole. Gods, was war always like this? Sinkholes and dead-eyed bandits and nightmares? Why did anyone boast of enjoying it, when this was what they had to look forward to if they were the victors? How much worse was it for those who lost, yet did not die?
His eyes heavy, he made to leave after his father, only to see the men returning, some supporting the fellows that had fallen in, others carrying them out entirely. Most seemed… well, they weren't dead, but some had twisted limbs or dented armor. Whether they survived the night would be up to the Wytch medics, but gods, had that many truly fallen in? More returned to the maw, torches in hand, to grab others, but movement caught his attention amidst the flickering torches.
"My prince! My prince!" a man said, rushing past the others, a torch in one hand and a small satchel in the other. Strange, there hadn't been one when he'd gone in…
"Yes? What is it?" the prince asked, gingerly stepping forward, Ser Thorne close to his side.
"My prince, near the bottom of the collapse, I found this," the man said, handing the bag. "There's more, my prince. At the bottom, there's muddy ground, and I heard a great deal of running water, an underground river, I think. I stood on its bank to see for myself, but could not discern the other side, even by torchlight."
"Truly?" Baelor asked as he untied the purse strings.
"Aye, my prince, it smells a bit stagnant, but the ground beneath the collapse, it's flat from what I could tell, and the cavern itself is mighty big. Couldn't see much past where the collapse is, the ceiling must be higher than my torch can reflect."
Baelor said nothing to that as he opened the bag, and amidst the men, under the light of the many torches and remaining campfires, Hugh saw the prince's eyes, and smile, grow wide. "Bless the Seven," the prince said, sounding so tired, and yet so exuberant. From within the satchel, he retrieved a large coin, and held it aloft, the details unclear from this distance, but the silvery white shine unmistakable. "By the Seven, men, do you know what this is?"
The lack of answers did nothing to diminish the prince's enthusiasm.
"By the gods, is that?" Ser Thorne asked, only to fall silent.
"A genuine Valyrian platinum coin," the prince said. "One of many from the hoard Ulwyck Wyl, the Blackadder himself I'd wager. My good man, this satchel, this was down there by its lonesome, correct?"
"Aye, my prince, in the big cavern with the river, but in the higher dirt away from the water there seemed to be old tracks of some kind, a wagon's perhaps? Wherever it goes or comes from, I could not see, but… do you think…?"
"Indeed I do, men, indeed I do," the prince said, holding the bag aloft. "Men! We have our evidence of the lost treasure of the Wyls! See to your wounds, and try to get some sleep, for know that tomorrow, we begin our true search begins!"
Hugh added his voice to the rousing cheers. Finally! A sign of their goal being within reach, and with it, an end to their troubles. What further riches awaited them down below, he could only guess, but as he returned to his tent, sleep came easily to him for the first time in days.